“All you have to do is love her”  

A Sermon for Mother’s Day

Acts 10:44-48, 1 John 5:1-6, John 15:9-17

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Here at Trinity Cathedral, we celebrate family in all shapes and sizes.  Some of these families, including mine, have been a topic of national conversation this past week as President Obama indicated his evolving support for same-sex marriage in the wake of North Carolina’s passage of a referendum that will prohibit gay marriage and civil unions.

In our reading from The Acts of the Apostles, we hear the ending of a remarkable account about conversion and inclusion that might inform this national conversation.   Let me tell you the rest of the story.

Cornelius was an officer in the Roman army who lived in Caesarea, a lovely seaside city.  Cornelius was a devout man who worshiped God with his whole household.  He practiced Judaism, gave alms generously and prayed constantly, but because he was not circumcised, he was considered a God-fearer rather than a full-fledged Jew.

One afternoon Cornelius received a vision from an angel of God saying, “Your prayers have been answered.  Send your men to Joppa and get Simon Peter.”  Cornelius sent two of his slaves and a devout soldier under his command to seek out Peter, first among the apostles.

About noon the next day, as the Cornelius’ entourage was approaching the city, Peter went up on the roof to pray, but he was distracted by hunger and wanted something to eat.  Waiting for his meal to be prepared, Peter fell into a trance and received a vision.  He saw the heavens open and something like a large sheet being lowered to the ground by four corners.  In it were all kinds of animals, reptiles and birds.  Then he heard a voice: “Get up, Peter; kill and eat.”  But Peter refused: “No way Lord! I have never eaten anything that is profane or unclean.”  The voice replied: “What God has made clean, you must not call profane.”  This happened three times, and then the sheet and the animals were suddenly taken back up to heaven.  Peter could not figure what had happened.

At that very moment, Cornelius’ men arrived looking for him.  While Peter was thinking about his vision, the Spirit spoke to him again: “Three men are searching for you.  Now get up and go with them for I have sent them.”  So Peter got up and went down and greeted the men: “I am the one for whom you are looking. Why are you here?”  They answered: “Cornelius, a centurion, a God-fearing man, who is highly regarded by the Jewish people, was told by an angel to send for you so that he could hear what you have to say.”  Peter invited them in and gave them a place to stay for the night.

The next morning, accompanied by some of the Christian believers in Joppa, Peter went with his guests to the home of Cornelius.  When they arrived at Caesarea, Cornelius met them, immediately fell at Peter’s feet and began to worship the apostle.  Peter said, “Stand up, for I am only a mortal.”  They went inside and Peter continued: “You know that it is unlawful for a Jew to associate with you or visit a Gentile. But God has shown me that I should not call anyone profane or unclean.”  Cornelius replied: “Four days ago, I was praying and I had this vision. A man showed up in my house.  He told me my prayer had been answered.  He instructed me to send for you.  And now you’ve arrived.  So now we’re here in the presence of God to listen to all that the Lord has commanded you to say.”

Peter began to speak, delivering one of the great sermons in all of Christian tradition: “I truly understand that God shows no partiality but in every nation anyone who fears God and does what is right is acceptable to God.”  He then recalled the story of Jesus.  While Peter was speaking, the Holy Spirit fell upon all who heard the word.  The circumcised believers (that is, the Jewish followers of Jesus) from Joppa were astounded that the gift of the Holy Spirit had been poured out – even on these Gentiles.  Then Peter asked: “Can anyone withhold the water of baptism from these believers,” after which he baptized them, and stayed on for several days.

When the apostles heard about this irregular, unauthorized liturgical event, they criticized Peter: “Why did you go to uncircumcised and eat with them?”  Peter explained everything that had happened.  After telling the whole story, he said, “I remembered the word of the Lord, how he said ‘John baptized with water, but you will be baptized with the Holy Spirit.’  If God gave them the same gift God gave us when we believed in Jesus Christ, who was I that I could hinder God?”   When Peter’s examiners heard this, they were silenced. And they praised God.  Hear what the Spirit is saying to the church and the nation!

This is a Bible story about the tension between embrace and exclusion within the early Christian faith.  Peter could have refused to go to Cornelius’ house.  He could have visited with Cornelius and refused to eat with him.  He even could have eaten with Cornelius and refused to share the story of Jesus.  He could have even shared the story of Jesus and refused to baptize Cornelius and the other uncircumcised Gentiles upon whom the Spirit landed.  Peter could have followed the rules to maintain the unity of the early church, but he didn’t.  Peter, the first apostle, broke down the walls, gates, fences and boundaries erected by the early Christian faith.  And in doing so, in opting for inclusion, not only was Cornelius converted to the way of Christ, but also Peter himself was converted to a new way of being in Christ.

When I re-read this story over the past week, I couldn’t help but think about the debate over homosexuality in this country, especially over the issue of same-sex marriage.  The question asked by Peter: “Can anyone withhold the water for baptizing these people who have received the Holy Spirit just as we have,” reminds me of the words once spoken by Episcopal gay activist and founder of Integrity Louie Crew: “Don’t baptize us, if you’re not going to ordain us or bless our relationships.”  In other words, don’t offer us one sacrament and then withhold the others.  If we’ve received the Holy Spirit just as we are, then make us full members of the Body of Christ and full heirs of God’s eternal kingdom.  The same could be said in the secular realm.  Don’t call me a citizen and deprive me of the full and equal rights of citizenship.

Coming out during college in the seventies, I have watched the issue of sexuality evolve in both church and state over the course of nearly four decades.  I am convinced that our civil rights, and our ecclesiastical and societal inclusion, has resulted from of one-on-one relationships and first-hand experiences that have led family, friends, neighbors, co-workers, and even strangers to a moment of conversion and acceptance.

A number of years ago, I had a vision that everybody who was lesbian, gay, bisexual and transgendered would turn purple at the same time.  Then my vision grew. I envisioned that everybody who had a LGBT spouse, parent, or child would turn purple.  I envisioned that everybody who had a LGBT doctor, dentist, pharmacist, lawyer, accountant, realtor, insurance agent, teacher, hairdresser, legislator, rabbi or minister would turn purple.  And then I envisioned that everybody who had a LGBT relative, friend, neighbor, student, employee, or employer would turn purple.  By the time I was finished, the world was a beautiful tapestry of richly woven purple; and the conversation had changed, the hearts of the people had changed, the policies of our government had changed, and the practices of our faith communities had changed.

However, I never believed that it would happen that way.   We have to turn ourselves, and those whom we love, purple.  We have to change the conversation, win the hearts of the people, and secure our civil and religious rights one-step-at-a-time by being open and true to ourselves.   God won’t do our work, but God will be with us in the trenches.  That is the promise of salvation.

So, over the course of the last nearly forty years, I’ve done my part, and I have been grateful for others who have done their part.  I’ve also held fast to the words of Dr. Martin Luther King, remembering that “the arc of the moral universe is long but it bends towards justice.”  But as President Obama reflected on the 40^th anniversary of Dr. King’s death, “The arc does not bend on its own. It bends because each of us in our own ways put our hand on that arc and we bend it in the direction of justice.”

This past week, the arch was bent a lot.  First it was bend backward by voters in the state of North Carolina, but then it took another bend toward justice as President Obama came to the conclusion that gay and lesbian couples deserve the same rights and privileges granted to heterosexual couples.  Watching a series of videos interviews over the past eight years, you can see that like Peter, President Obama has evolved, maybe even has been converted, to a new understanding of inclusion.  (http://www.nytimes.com/interactive/2012/05/10/us/politics/20120510-obama.html?ref=politics)

Some say, “How dare he.”  Other say, “It’s long overdue.  And still others say, “It’s about time.”  But I say, “Welcome Mr. President and thank you!”

As you know, I am very careful not to make any partisan endorsements from this pulpit, and I’m not about to begin today.  However, I want to give credit to the President of the United States for coming to a new and broader understanding of marriage, and of what it means to love all of God’s children and their families.  I want to thank our President for supporting my civil rights and those of my gay brothers and lesbian sisters, and for coming out on this issue in spite of some pretty loud public opposition and potential political cost.   I also want to praise the President for being faithful to the Gospel of Jesus Christ, as he understands it.

One of the most difficult and courageous things a leader – especially an elected official and most especially an elected official during a campaign season – can do is change his or her mind on a controversial and publicly held opinion.  It can make one seem weak and indecisive.  And yet, as Peter demonstrated in his decision to baptize Cornelius, and as Jesus demonstrated when the persistent widow insisted on eating the crumbs under the table, there are times when we are called to change our opinion, our direction, and even our action.    That is precisely what the President did with regards to same-sex marriage.  He said: I have changed my thoughts on this matter.  I have evolved to a new understanding about same-sex marriage.  This is also what Ohio State Supreme Court Justice Paul Pfeifer recently said about the death penalty, a law that he helped to write as a young state senator thirty years ago.

In today’s gospel reading, Jesus said: “There is no greater love than this, to lay down one’s life for a friend.”  In the midst of a presidential election, on the heels of the North Carolina state referendum, President Obama took a risk and potentially laid down his political life for families like mine.

Christian discipleship is about being willing to lay down our lives not for our friends, but also for our neighbors, our sojourners, and our constituents.  It applies to gas station attendants, shopkeepers and factory workers; doctors, teachers, lawyers, and clergy; corporate executives, mayors, governors, and yes, even presidents.  Yes, the grace of God can be costly; it can even cost one his political career or her life, but that is what faithful discipleship is all about.

Jesus also tells us “to go and bear fruit, fruit that will last.”  We all are called to bear witness to our faith.  Married couples (gay and straight alike) are called to nurture loving and faithful relationships.  Parents (gay and straight alike) are called to raise children in loving homes.  Civil servants are called to protect the rights of all families (gay and straight alike).  The Church is called is to welcome and offer God’s blessing and support for all of God’s children (gay and straight alike).  And yes, the LGBT community and our allies (including our parents) are called to do the work of liberation – to come out and speak our truth in love – so that those who don’t yet accept us might evolve to a new understanding and be converted to the unconditional love of God as expressed by Jesus.

Often bearing witness is pretty simple.  Emily’s mom demonstrated this to me a number of years ago.   It was my first summer as chaplain and preacher at the Chautauqua Institution, and I was the first openly gay, partnered chaplain the Institution had welcomed to its pulpit.  Emily’s mom and two aunts drove out for the closing service, and I acknowledged them in the congregation.  Later that day, a man whose daughter had recently come out walked up to Emily and said, “My daughter has just told me that she’s a lesbian, and I don’t know what to do about it.”  Emily’s mother, standing next to her, smiled at him and said, “Love her.  All you have to do is love her.”

Listen to my entire sermon: 

Have you ever noticed how much we try to domesticate God?  We want a God who is comforting, reassuring, dependable and not too demanding – a God who will ease our burdens and grant us rest from our labors.  As that beloved prayer in the order for Compline says, “We who are wearied by the changes and chances of this life want to rest in [God’s] eternal changelessness.”

We also want a church that contains our domesticated God – a church that is comforting, reassuring, dependable, and not too demanding.  We who are wearied by the changes and chances of this life want to worship in the church’s eternal changelessness, unless of course, we want something to change.

But guess what folks?  That’s not the God of the Judeo-Christian tradition, it’s not the God of Jesus Christ, and it’s definitely not the God of Jesus Christ according to the Gospel of Mark.   While comforting, reassuring and dependable, our God is also unpredictable, changeable, sometimes confusing and often challenging, speaking to us through the wind and leading us into a whirlwind.

In the oldest gospel account, God breaks into humanity through Jesus’ baptism, drives this beloved son into the wilderness, appoints the satan to test him, sends the wild beasts to accompany him, ordains angels to minister to him, and then sends him out into the world to do the work that he was given to do.   That’s what happened to Jesus when he showed up at church.  That’s the good news according to Mark.

This story of Jesus’ baptism and adventure in the wilderness stands as a tollbooth on our Lenten highway to Easter.   It is a tale of what happens God comes close – when God breaks through the heavens and enters the human realm.

In those days Jesus came from Nazareth in Galilee and was baptized by John in the Jordan.  This is a powerful event!  Jesus joined the line of people waiting to have their sins washed away by John the Baptizer.    He was submerged in the muddy water.  He saw the heavens tear apart.  He felt the Spirit land as enormous bird upon his shoulder.  He heard a voice from heaven name him as beloved son.  And then, he surfaced from the deep, gasped for breath, and was immediately sent to the wilderness.

This was no ordinary baptism.  But I wonder: is there ever an ordinary baptism, or do we just refuse to acknowledge the cosmic, divine power of baptism?  Is it possible that we have so domesticated the sacrament of baptism with a gentle sprinkling of warm water that we don’t see the heavens tearing open, feel the Spirit landing upon our shoulders, or hear the voice saying: you are my beloved child.

Jesus saw, felt and heard all of that cosmic, divine power when was baptized.  But did he get to relax in the afterglow or relish the joy and warmth of his newfound identity?   No, he wasn’t able to go to the reception, the brunch or the party.  He didn’t even get to take a nap.  God had other things in mind for him.   Jesus immediately was forced out, cast out, and thrown into the wilderness – the barren, frightening, chaotic and dangerous wild land of the unknown.

The newly baptized Son of God didn’t just wander into the Judean desert because he lost his map, his compass or his sense of direction.  Jesus’ internal GPS wasn’t broken.   No, after his baptism, the Spirit of God, the same Spirit that landed as a dove upon his shoulder in the River Jordan, immediately drove Jesus into the wilderness.  The very same Spirit that swept over the face of the earth at the beginning of creation and blew life into the nostrils of the first humans forced Jesus into the unknown.  The same Spirit that was given to Moses as he stood before a burning bush threw Jesus into the untamed wilds.  The same Spirit that anointed Samuel, Saul, David, and Solomon cast Jesus into the rough lands.  The same Spirit that spoke and acted through Elijah, and was given in double portion to Elisha tossed Jesus into the wilderness.  The same Spirit that breathed upon Job and rested upon Isaiah, Jeremiah, Ezekiel and the rest of the prophets drove him into that desolate, uncharted place.  The very same Spirit that came upon Mary, his mother, threw Jesus out of his comfort zone into a barren wasteland of limestone hills and deep ravines.

It reminds me of the movie adaptation of Maurice Sendak’s famous children’s book, Where the Wild Things Are, in which the little boy, Max, went to the land of the wild things, whose ways were both a temptation and a test for him.  At first he had a great time leading these great beasts on a wild rumpus of fort building and dirt fights, but he learned that it is not enough to just be filled with the spirit, one has to develop and apply some skill and substance to create a world that is filled with love.

I think this is what Jesus also learned on his wilderness adventure.  Sure, he was God’s beloved Son and God’s chosen messenger of salvation.  But what did he know about the work that was before him?  What did he know about the job of being God’s anointed one?  What did he know about building the kingdom of God or leading people into it?  What did he know about confronting the powers and principalities of the world?  After all, he was a thirty-year old carpenter.  This was his testing ground for the days ahead.

During his forty days sojourn in the wilderness, the gospel of Mark (as distinct from Matthew and Luke) tells us Jesus was tempted by not by the devil, but by Satan.  There is debate among scholars about the identity of this character called Satan.  Is it Satan with a capital “S” or the satan?  As Richard Swanson suggests, if the tempter is Satan, this was “an ambush set up to destroy Jesus…by a deadly enemy, the representative of everything evil in the world.”[i]  But if the tempter was actually the satan (or in Hebrew, ha-satan) then Swanson says, “the scene is different.”  “The satan is an agent of God, and is given the task of testing all parts of creation to ensure that all things are as solid and sound as they appear to be.”

This satan (ha-satan) is an adversary or accuser used by God to test the fidelity and righteousness of the created order, especially humanity.  This is the satan that was asked by God to assess by trial the character of Job.  This is the satan that stood at the right hand of Joshua to judge the righteousness of Jerusalem.

In some Jewish wisdom literature, the Satan (ha-satan) is actually an agent of God whose job it is to tempt one into sin, and then turn around and accuse the sinner from on high.  That’s why the satan (ha-satan) is often referred to as the slanderer, the accuser, or the provoker.  But according to the rabbinic tradition, the satan deep down inside hopes that we will resist his temptations.  It makes you wonder if God sent the serpent to test Adam and Eve hoping that they would resist the temptation and thus remain forever in the Garden of Eden.

Just as I have suggested that John the Baptist was the demolition contractor in the restoration of God’s creation, Richard Swanson posits the satan as “the building inspector charged by God with testing every structure, every person, to be sure that nothing shady slips by.”[ii]  And as much of a pain as inspectors can be, I wouldn’t want to live in a building, drive a car, or fly in a plane that had not passed inspection.

If Jesus met the satan (ha-satan) in the wilderness, then he met not the devil – the personification of evil – but rather an agent of God who was appointed to test the sum and substance of God’s beloved son.  This testing was an essential part of Jesus’ preparation to serve as God’s anointed one.

Think about it this way.  Can you imagine shipping soldiers off battle without first putting them through basic training, sending fire fighters into a burning building without first teaching them how to use fire hoses or climb ladders, or allowing a surgeon into the operating room without first equipping her in medical school?

This was Jesus’ boot camp, his student teaching, and his residency.  It was  designed to prepare him for dealing with the powers and principalities of the world into which he was being sent.  As time would tell, Jesus’ wilderness journey would be a minor test compared to his confrontations and struggles with his hometown friends and family, his disciples, all those hurting and needy people, and most especially, the political and religious authorities of his day who wanted a domesticated God made in their own image and contained in a well-constructed box.

While Matthew and Luke are fairly specific in describing the temptations, Mark’s account is ambiguous, leaving us to wonder about the nature of the testing.  But based on the rest of the gospel story, we can assume that the testing had something to do with power – real and perceived, human and divine, raw and refined, good and evil, guided and misdirected, pastoral and prophetic, individual and collective – a 40-day training program in power dynamics.

Jesus was not alone in the wilderness.  Mark tells us that he was with the wild beasts.  Traditionally, we have thought of those wild beasts as threatening enemies, dangerous bedfellows aggravating predators, or at best, bothersome nuisances – a perspective consistent with our understanding of nature as something to be conquered and subdued.  If you were a first-century Christian hearing this story, you might be reminded of the real threat of being fed to the lions in a Roman arena and be assured that you would not be asked to suffer anything that Jesus had not already faced.

Perhaps however, the wild beasts were not foes, but rather, Jesus’ companions in the wilderness.  One of the temptations might have been to destroy the wild beasts in order to survive, but instead Jesus, like Max in Where the Wild Things Are, might have discovered them to be his teachers, helpmates and even friends and followers.  Perhaps, they called for the angels to minister to their brother Jesus.

After those forty days and forty nights were over, Jesus emerged ready to take on the world.  Mark tells us that the appointed time had arrived.  Jesus came back to Galilee proclaiming, “The time is fulfilled, and the kingdom of God has come near; repent, and believe in the good news.”  The power of God in Christ had been born, baptized, tested, and now loosed on the world.

Remember that desire for a domesticated God.  Well guess what?  God in Jesus did not and will not become domesticated.  No, the good news is that God’s spirit broke free into Jesus, and despite over 2000 years of effort to contain, constrain, imprison and even kill it, that powerful, divine Spirit is still running free and unfettered in our world.  The good news is that God wants this very same Spirit to baptize, test and loose you and me on the world as well.

Pay Attention - Tracey Lind - India 2008

Listen to my entire sermon: 

The poet Mary Oliver once wrote: “To pay attention, this is our endless and proper work.”  In her poem “Sometimes,” she elaborated on this thought.  “Instructions for living a life:  Pay attention.  Be astonished.  Tell about it.”[i]

The scripture readings appointed for the last Sunday in Epiphany are about paying attention.  In 2nd Kings, Elisha pays attention as Elijah ascends to God, thus receiving the promise of inheriting a double share of his mentor’s spirit.  The text tells us that, Elisha “kept watching.”  The word “watch” means to pay attention to what you see.  As Paul writes in his second letter to the church in Corinth the Gospel of Jesus Christ is unveiled to those who pay attention to what they see and are willing to believe.

This powerful gospel story (Mark 9:2-9) is also about paying attention.  Jesus, standing with Moses and Elijah is transfigured before their very eyes.  And after Peter once again misses the mark by suggesting that they build dwellings, that they create a permanent structure on the mountaintop, God intervenes.  Speaking from the clouds the divine voice says, “Listen.”  The word listen means to “pay attention to what you hear.”

Are you paying attention these days?  Are you really paying attention – to your life, your world and your God?  Are you watching and listening to the word and wisdom of God?

It is difficult to be attentive.  Attention requires discipline, focus and purpose.  In fact, according to the National Institute of Health, some 3-5% of the U.S. population suffers from Attention Deficit Disorder, or ADD.  With all of the stimuli – television, radio, the internet – in our environment, one might expect this statistic to be even higher.

It’s hard to listen attentively, to really hear what others, even God, are trying to say to us.  People think four or five times faster than they can speak.  Humans speak at a rate of 120-130 words a minute, but we are able listen at a rate of 600-800 words a minute.  Thus, distractions often slip in our minds when we’re trying to listen.  That’s why we have a tendency to interrupt, finish the other person’s sentence, talk over the other person, jump to conclusion, write the end of the script, and offer advice too soon.  No wonder so many people get frustrated and cry out: “You never listen to me!”

The inability to listen attentively is affectively all aspects of our life, perhaps most especially the public realm and the political arena.  Just think about the deadlock in Washington.  We joke about the rowdiness of the British parliament, but what about our own Congress.  I like tuning into C-Span to watch Senators and Representatives making speeches to an empty chamber.  Is anybody listening to what anybody else has to say?

Or what about political campaigns?  Are the candidates able to listen to each other, much less to the voters?   Recently, I was talking with Dan Moulthrop of the Civic Commons, a tenant in one of our storefronts on Euclid Avenue, a project designed to “bring communities in NEO together with conversation and emerging technology.”  He told me that the Civic Commons defines civility as what happens when we are interested in another’s opinion as much as our own.  I would suggest that civility is what happens when we really listen and pay attention to one another.   What kind of a world would we inhabit if we were as interested listening to the opinions of God and our neighbor as much as our own?

With all of the visual distractions in our world, it’s also hard to see that which is important and perhaps even transformative.  As a photographer, I try to pay attention to what my eye sees, but sometimes I’m so distracted that I forget to look.  For instance, yesterday as I was writing my sermon, I looked up from books and my computer screen and I saw the most magnificent light on the lake.  But by the time I grabbed my camera, my shoes, my coat and hat – the light has shifted.  I almost missed it!

We often miss the visual cues in front our eyes because we’re not looking.  We’re not paying attention.  As Annie Dillard so acutely observed in Teaching a Stone to Talk, we are often like “cheerful, brainless tourists on a packaged tour of the Absolute…having coffee and doughnuts on Deck C…[presuming that] someone is minding the ship, correcting the course, avoiding icebergs and shoals, fueling the engines, watching the radar screen, noting the weather repots radioed in from shore.” (p. 40) But are we looking around, paying attention to the reef, the shoreline, the ship in our course.  As Dillard asks, are we even attentive to “the sleeping god [who] may wake someday and take offense, or the waking god [who] may draw us out to where we can never return.”[ii] (p. 40-41)

That’s the story of the Transfiguration.  Those disciples went up on that mountaintop with Jesus, and he was transfigured before their very eyes and they were drawn out to a place where they could never return.

The Rev. Tom Faulkner has been at Trinity Cathedral for the past week  installing his  Stations of the Cross.  Tom is an Episcopal priest and a visual artist who served for eight months at Ground Zero in NYC as a chaplain at the morgue.  And these Stations of the Cross are a reflection of what Tom saw and heard for those eight months.  They are a meditation on what he was paying attention to during those weeks and months at Ground Zero.  These Stations of the Cross, which will live with us for the season of Lent, invite us to pay attention: to look and to listen to the intersection of Jesus’ passion with that of the world.  They aren’t pretty.  They aren’t easy to look at.  Some of them are very provocative, and some of them are downright disturbing.  But, they are one artist’s, one priest’s faithful response to the voice of Christ, the voice of Christ transfigured on the mountaintop, crucified on Calvary, resurrected in the garden, and now sitting at the hand of God.

I hope you might visit Trinity Cathedral this Lent and walk the Stations of the Cross.  If you do, I invite you to look and listen attentively and closely the voice of Christ speaking through this artist.  I hope  you to see the face of Christ in these stations so that you might heighten your attentive eyes to Christ in the world around you.  I encourage you to imagine how you might create the state in your own life, your own art, in the work of your own hand.  I pray that this installation, this gift from one human to others, be a window into the divine mystery and task of transformation.

In his most recent book, Parker Palmer explores the old Quaker saying: “Let your life speak.” He reminds us that vocation is rooted in the Latin word “voice;” and he advises us: “Before you tell your life what you intend to do with it, listen for what it intends to do with you.”[iii]

As you approach Lent, pay attention in a new and more profound way, listening and looking carefully at your life and the life of the world.  As you consider your Lenten discipline of fasting and/or taking on, to what or to whom do you need to be attentive?  Is it your body or your diet?  Is it your family or your work?  Is it your politics or your civic engagement?  Is it your prayer life or your spiritual practice?  Is our world or our God?  Quite possibly, it is some combination of all of the above.  Perhaps our Lenten task is as straightforward as Mary Oliver suggests: Pay attention.  Pay Attention.  Pay Attention.

What's wrong with french fries?

Ash Wednesday 2012

At our annual Shrove Tuesday pancake supper, a group of middle-aged adults started talking about favorite junk food from our childhood.  On the top of the list for a number of folks were Krispy Kreme donuts.  As I drove home, trying to focus on my Ash Wednesday sermon,  I had junk food on the brain, and my ruminations turned to McDonald’s french fries.  By the time I got to my house, I literally had a craving for those perfectly constructed, remarkably uniform, four-inch-long strips of Idaho russet potatoes soaked in sugar, corn syrup, and hot water; fried in oil; drenched in salt; and served in a little paper bag or box.  And then I remembered my Lenten commitment of mindful eating.

But I couldn’t get those French fries out of my mind.  I could have gone out and feasted on McDonald’s french fries.  After all, it was still Fat Tuesday.  But instead, I sat down with Food and Faith, one of the books I intended to read to inspire my mindful eating discipline.  The book fell open to an essay by John Ryan and Alan Durning about the journey of a box of McDonald’s French fries that began on a one-half square foot of sandy soil in the upper Snake River valley of Idaho.[i]

I learned that during its 150-day growing period, my potato was watered repeatedly with a total of seven and one-half gallons of water from the Snake River.  My potato was treated with a variety of fertilizers and pesticides to make it look so uniform and perfect.  Much of the fertilizer’s nitrogen leached into the groundwater, making it unfit for even fertilization, and some of it washed into the streams that feed the Snake River.

Once my potato had grown to maturity, it was harvested by diesel-powered farm machinery and trucked to a nearby processing plant.  Half of my potato’s weight (mostly water from the Snake River) was eliminated in the processing.  The processing itself created an additional two-thirds of a gallon of wastewater that included 1/3 gram of nitrogen, and was then sprayed on a field outside the plant and sank underground.

After my potato was processed into those uniform four-inch-long strips, it was frozen with hydro fluorocarbon coolants and electricity generated by a dam on the Snake River.  It then was shipped, along with lots of other bags of frozen four-inch-long strips of potatoes, in a refrigerated 18-wheeler to my McDonald’s – one of 33,000 worldwide.

By the time I finished reading the essay, I should have lost my taste for a bag of those golden brown French fries, but I didn’t.  However, I decided to begin my Lenten practice of mindful eating a day early.

In the traditional gospel reading from Matthew 6 appointed for Ash Wednesday Jesus, reminds us of three essential principles of Christian mindfulness:  fasting, almsgiving, and prayer.  Using french fries as my metaphor, I want to explore with you what he’s talking about and how it might apply in our daily lives.

In the abstract, there is absolutely nothing wrong with eating french fries.  Now, I wouldn’t go as far as Ray Kroc, one of the founders of McDonald’s who wrote in his autobiography that the french fry was “almost sacrosanct” for him.  However, I might agree that ”its preparation [could be] a ritual to be followed religiously.”[ii]  If I grew a potato in my own organic garden, relying largely on rain water and no fertilizer; if I harvested that potato myself; if I washed it in my sink with small amount of tap water; if I sliced it into imperfect four-inch-long strips; and if I fried it in a little unsaturated oil; and if I sprinkled just a little sea salt, then my french fries wouldn’t be so bad.

Moreover, if I had grown my own potato and processed it myself into a plate of french fries, I would have been mindful of, and attentive to, the soil, the sun, the rain, my neighborhood critters, my body, and my environment.  Once I got used to not coating my food with sugar and corn syrup, I’m certain it would have tasted better.   And, for every calorie eaten, I might have burned up a few in the effort of tending my garden.

Knowing my gardening skills, I would have been saying a lot of prayers for my garden to grow.  And if I had a decent crop, I could have shared my produce with others less fortunate.

But what if I didn’t have a garden?   Well, I could have grown my potato in a community garden, or purchased it from a local farmer, a CSA or a farmer’s market.    Moreover, as a discipline, for every potato eaten, I could give one or two cents to a local or global hunger program.

The point is, that in deciding not to buy my french fries in a box or bag from McDonald’s (or some other fast food restaurant), I would be making the decision to be mindful in my eating, prayerful in my choices, and attentive to the needs of the rest of the world.

As I reflect on Jesus’ advice for practicing self-denial, I have concluded that it really is about paying attention – paying attention to how we eat, how we pray, and how we share the gifts we have been given.

Lent is a time to focus on this practice of mindful living.  It is a season to renew those good new intentions and begin taking steps in the right direction.   In AA, they say – 90 meetings in 90 days.  That’s the amount of time it takes to break an old habit and form a new one.  The Lenten-Easter cycle is just that – 90 days: 40 days of Lent and 50 days of Easter.   That’s 90 days to begin again and start anew.  And, if one falls off the wagon, so to speak, you can start over.  After all, we belong to a religion of second-chances and start-overs.  It’s really a matter of intention, attention, mindfulness and practice.

As for me, I’m going to work on mindful eating as my Lenten practice and hope that it sticks.  I think I’m also going to plant some potatoes this spring.  I should be able to plant my crop on St. Patrick’s Day – right in the middle of Lent and harvest my potatoes after Pentecost.  In the meantime, I’m going to do my best to avoid those tempting McDonald’s french fries.

What about you?  What are going to take on or give up this Lent as you pay attention to practice mindful living in the name of Christ?

Cold Plunge

“A certain day became a presence to me; there it was, confronting me – a sky, air, light: a being.  And before it started to descend from the height of noon, it leaned over and struck my shoulder as if with the flat of a sword, granting me honor and a task.  The day’s blow rang out, metallic – or it was I, a bell-awakened, and what I heard my whole self saying and singing what it knew: I can.” (Denise Levertov, “Variation on a Theme by Rilke,” 1987)

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Whenever I hear these words, penned by the poet Denise Levertov, I am reminded of the sacrament of baptism, and today I am especially reminded of Jesus’ baptism.   I can imagine our Lord as a young man who decided one day to abandon his carpentry tools, leave his hometown of Nazareth, and wander into the wilderness to meet up with his cousin John the Baptizer at the River Jordan.

The Great River Jordan at Nazareth - Muddy and not-so-wide - Tracey Lind 2004

This famous body of water is more like a meandering creek than a big, wide river. Yet, this is the river that Jesus’ spiritual ancestor and our spiritual ancestor Jacob crossed to be reunited with his brother Esau.  This is river that Jesus’ spiritual ancestor and our spiritual ancestor Joshua crossed when he led God’s chosen people into the Promised Land after forty years of roaming in the Exodus.  This is the river where Jesus’ spiritual ancestor and our spiritual ancestor Elijah took off his cloak and struck the water so that he and Elisha could cross on dry land.  This is the great River Jordan whose name was derived from a Hebrew verb that means to descend, go down, or pour out.

Jesus, spiritual descendant of Jacob, Joshua, and Elijah, waded in those waters and God’s very spirit was poured out upon him.  When he ascended from the muddy water of this very river, our Lord Jesus commenced his public ministry as anointed servant, savior and Son of God.

According to the Gospel of Mark, it was on the occasion of his baptism Jesus finally knew who he was, to whom he belonged, and what he had to do.  Like the story of creation in the first chapter of Genesis, at his baptism Jesus stepped down into the dark, formless and murky water, the Spirit lighted upon (or as some have suggested dive-bombed onto) his shoulder and the Son of God emerged and began to create in God’s very own image.

Did Jesus know what was about to happen when he submerged into the water of baptism?  We’re not told.  In fact, if you were reading the Gospel of Mark like a novel, you won’t even yet know whom Jesus was.  For this is Chapter 1, the beginning of the story of Jesus Christ.

So for a moment, suspend your knowledge of Jesus as Son of God and your faith in him as Lord and Savior, and just consider him a thirty-year-old man coming from a small town to met up with his cousin John.  Perhaps, he stood on the shores of the river and watched for a while as men and women were submerged in the flowing water.  Perhaps, he sat on the riverbank and listened to John’s prophetic words of repentance.  Perhaps, there was a lull in a baptism business and nobody was around but John, and Jesus greeted him with a big hug and caught up on family news for a while.  Or perhaps, Jesus caught John by surprise as he stood in turn in line to be baptized.  Who knows?

What we do know is that Jesus chose to be baptized by John in the River Jordan.  He chose to dive deep into the muddy and murky water, to go below the surface to the place of darkness and chaos in order to submit and surrender to God’s way.  We also know that, “just as he was coming up out the water, he saw the heavens tear of apart (literally, schism) and the Spirit descend like a dove on him.” (Mark 1:10)  To borrow Denise Levertov’s metaphor, “it leaned over and struck [his] shoulder as if with the flat of a sword, granting [him] honor and a task.”

Surfacing - Tracey Lind - 2005

According to this Gospel account, it was an epiphany of divine power, divine love, and divine claiming of humanity.  According to Mark’s account of this event, when Jesus was baptized and came out of the water, God entered the earthly realm in a powerful in-breaking and tearing apart of the boundary between human and divine.

Can you imagine it?  Can you see what Jesus saw and felt – the full force of the divine descending and tearing apart all that separates humans from the Eternal One?  And then, can you envision a dove with its big, fluffy feathers descend upon your shoulder like the “flat of a sword” anointing you and claiming you as God’s very own beloved child.

Coming up from the waters of baptism, God took hold of him.  What could he do?  In the film Patch Adams, a doctor played by Robin Williams who wants to heal his patients with humor, laughter and joy played said,  “When a dream takes hold of you, what can you do?  You can run with it, let it run your life, or let it go and think for the rest of your life about what might have been.”  Was he going to run with God and let God run his life, or was he going to let God’s Spirit go and for the rest of his life think about what might have been?

And so it is with each and every one of us.   At some point in your life, God will take hold of you.  One day, if you surrender to it, God will call you to the dark and murky waters of creation, land upon your shoulder, and you will finally know what you have to do and begin, for God wants to claim all of humanity as chosen vehicles of grace.  In fact, I believe that God needs all of us to fulfill the divine dream for humanity.   But each one of us has to make ourself available to be claimed and anointed by the transcendent and yet intimate power, and perhaps even frightening grace of God.

I always say that baptism is our first and most important ordination.   That’s why, at Trinity Cathedral, we give big certificates to those upon whom baptism is conferred – to remind of us our ordination to the priesthood of all believers.  Baptism is our call to run with Jesus and minister in Christ’s name, witnessing to the power of God’s love.  It is our commission to be disciples of our Lord, to follow the way of the cross.  It is our call to seek unity and community with one another, to bless and care for one another, and to serve one another.

Can you imagine what would happen if we took seriously our ordination of baptism?  Can you imagine what would happen if all the baptized really lived as if we were by anointed by God?  Can you imagine what would happen if we would claim the dream given us, receive the divine presence, and welcome the Spirit as she descends from the heavens, leaning over and striking our shoulders “as if with the flat of a sword, granting [us] honor and a task?”  Can you imagine “The day’s blow [ringing] out…[and yourself] a bell-awakened….saying and singing what it knew: [You] can?”  What a world it would be!

A Winter Pond - Tracey Lind - The Feast of the Baptism of our Lord - 2012

Elsie, The Christmas Cow - Tracey Lind - 2011

Of course, I was there.  Everybody knew I was there.  That’s why I’m in a lot of Christmas carols, and I always make an appearance the Christmas pageant. I’ll bet you’ve never seen one without my smiling face.

My name is Elsie.  I was there when Jesus was born.  I was minding my own business, enjoying my dinner when all this commotion began.

My owner, the innkeeper, opened the door to my stable.  It was dark outside, and he had a lantern.  With him were a man and a very pregnant woman.  They had a donkey laden with blankets.  He had a water gourd hanging off his saddle, and a couple of side bags filled with bread, cheese and olives.

The man was explaining to my owner that they had come into town to get registered for taxes.  He wasn’t very happy about it, but there was nothing he could do but comply with Roman law.  He said that the road from Nazareth to Bethlehem had been crowded with travelers, just like him and his fiancé.

The man and my owner were talking about those awful Roman officials, watching over the parade with spears and swords – behaving as if revolution was about to erupt.

The man (I think his name was Joseph) thanked my owner for the hospitality, and they parted company.  Some hospitality – My owner didn’t give him a room in the inn.  He insisted that this pregnant woman (I think I overheard her called Mary) sleep in the barn  – my inn, so to speak.

Joseph and Mary, along with their donkey came into the stable and hung the lantern on a peg in the wall.  Joseph helped Mary settle in on the floor, taking some of my hay to make her a mattress.

I introduced myself to the donkey and learned that his name was Michel.  I offered him some of the hay in my manger and some water from my trough. We were getting acquainted.  Michel was telling me how exhausted he was.  After all, he had walked for several days on some terrible roads, carrying a pregnant woman on his back.  What a beast of burden he had become.

Eventually, everybody settled down. I went back to eating dinner and was interrupted again.  Mary started screaming, “The baby’s coming, the baby’s coming.”  Joseph went looking for help.  Fortunately, it didn’t take him long to find the local midwife, who by way helped me deliver my last baby calf.

Siphrah is a good woman, and a real beauty (just like her name implies).  She patted me on the head and asked after my calf, now a grown cow herself, providing milk for a family down the road.

You know what happened next.

Siphrah sent Joseph to get hot water and rags for the birth.  She got Mary to squat and begin to push and push and push….

The stable got really hot with all the activity.  But who am I to complain.   I always have a temperature of about 102 degrees  - yes, I’m a warm-blooded lady to be sure.   Mary was huffing and puffing, and Joseph (who had never witnessed a birth) was sweating up a storm.

It also got awfully noisy in the barn.  Mary was screaming.  Siphrah was shouting, “Push!”  Joseph was whimpering under his breath.  Michel started to bray.  A couple of lambs that were sitting in another stall started to bleat.  Squealer, the pig started to grunt.  And I began to moo.

Then, it happened.  A baby was born.  Siphrah pulled him out, wiped him off, patted him on the back.  He then SCREAMED, startling and silencing the rest of us.  His was a greeting that would echo down through the ages: “Hello world, it’s me!”

Siphrah swaddled him in rags and placed him in his mother’s arms.  She turned to Joseph and asked, “What will you name this child?”  And without hesitation, Joseph responded, “Jesu” (or Jesus as he’s become known to you).  Remembering the words of the angel, he said, “Yes, we will call him Jesu,” which means “God delivers.”

After Mary held him for a few minutes, she fell asleep with exhaustion.  Siphrah picked up the little baby and held him in her arms, wondering who he really might be and who he might become.

Meanwhile Joseph came over to me and asked for a favor.  He wanted to use my manger – my food trough – now half-empty from sharing my dinner with Michel.  He wanted it as a cradle or a crib for his newborn son.  What could I say, but “Sure.”  At least I could offer some hospitality to this little baby.  Joseph freshened the manger with new hay and gently laid the infant in it.

As curious as a cow is, I kept looking at his face.  In fact, I got so close that my wet nose nuzzled his warm, little cheek.  When I looked into his eyes, I just knew he was special.  Cows have a special sense of intuition.

And then, this little song came into my head:

Away in a manger, no crib for His bed,

The little Lord Jesus lay down his sweet head.

The stars in the sky
 looked down where He lay

The little Lord Jesus, asleep on the hay.

The cattle are lowing, the poor Baby wakes,

But little Lord Jesus, no crying He makes;

I love Thee, Lord Jesus, look down from the sky

And stay by my cradle
 till morning is nigh.

Be near me, Lord Jesus, I ask Thee to stay,

Close by me forever, and love me, I pray!

Bless all the dear children in Thy tender care

And take us to heaven, to live with Thee there.

And that’s the story of Christmas from the perspective of Elsie, the cow.

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A number of years ago, I received Christmas greetings from an old friend. Attached to her letter was a button of a baby crawling on all fours. She wrote that God appeared on earth as the “most vulnerable and appealing creature imaginable” so that we would take him into our hearts and spread his message of peace and justice around the world.

For almost a decade, I’ve kept that button on my own little altar next to a simple wooden cross, a tiny painted icon of the face of Jesus, and a rock in the shape of a battered heart. Together, they remind me that the heart of God poured into the world through the birth of a helpless and vulnerable baby, who grew up to be a courageous and faithful adult. He proclaimed the reign of God, was executed by those who were threatened by his message, rose again in the broken hearts of his followers, and lives on in the witness of the church around the world.

The real symbol of Christmas is not the Christmas tree, Santa Claus, an angel, or even a star; no, the real symbol of Christmas is a newborn baby. Writing from a Nazi prison during World War II, Dietrich Bonhoeffer articulated this radical truth about Christmas. “We are talking about the birth of a child, not the revolutionary act of a strong man, not the breathtaking discovery of a sage, not the pious act of a saint.”

Bonhoeffer, a young Lutheran pastor, was charged with treason because he dared to act prophetically and politically in the name of Christ. Sitting in a lonely prison cell, waiting for his own execution, Bonhoeffer was confident that God poured the divine essence into the baby Jesus to redeem humanity and restore creation. But, he insisted this grace of God ultimately would come at great cost to those who received it.

The paradox of Christmas is that God chose to enter the world in the very form to which human beings are drawn, and yet in circumstances from which we tend to turn away. Jesus – Emmanuel – God with us was born as a homeless baby on a bed of straw in a cold and dirty stable, amid barn animals. His parents were poor and unwed, a teenage mother and her fiancé who were forced to travel far from home to register for taxes with an oppressive government. Then, after a brief but powerful ministry of preaching, teaching, and healing, at the age of thirty-three, he was condemned of treason and heresy, and executed as a criminal on a cross of wood. Our God’s coming into the world was like that of thousands of children born in similar circumstances every day; his ministry has been both an inspiration and a threat to people, institutions, governments, and yes, even churches throughout the ages; and his death has been repeated all too often in virtually every country on earth.

The Fourth Gospel, the Gospel of John, tells us that in the life of Jesus, “The Word became flesh and dwelt among us.” The English word “to dwell” is derived from a Greek word that literally means to “pitch a tent.” Though not particularly poetic, the Gospel of John actually reads, “The Word became flesh and pitched a tent among us.”

I can’t seem to get out of my mind’s eye the image of the great “I Am” pitching a pup tent, or perhaps a tarp, to be one of us, to stand with us, to sleep next to us, and to literally occupy our human realm. I think that by pitching a tent with us, God wanted to be up close and personal, deeply engaged in our complicated and messy daily lives and in the increasingly complex and often chaotic life of the world.

If you come into town and build a fort, a mansion, or an office building with a fence, a wall or a moat around it, it says that you don’t want to have a lot to do with the community around you. But if you pitch a tent in my yard, my parking lot, or on my sidewalk, you will probably want to knock on my door, use my bathroom, eat at my table, and maybe even have some meaningful conversation with me and my family. This is why God became human. God came to pitch a tent among us, to occupy our space, so that God could engage fully in our humanity, allowing the soul to feel its worth, and we could really encounter the divine word and hear what God has to say.

As I stand among you tonight, I am mindful of those who, because of war, economic hardship or natural disaster, are forced to sleep in tents and under tarps around the world, and I know that the Risen Christ is dwelling among them. But I’m also aware of those are intentionally pitching tents on public squares, sidewalks, parks, parking lots, and even church steps as part of what-has-come-to be- known-as the Occupy Movement; and I keep seeing the face of Jesus in that crowd.

In the midst of what might seem to many of us to be chaos, conflict and confusion, the Risen Christ is there. He is teaching and preaching, comforting a crying child, and helping and elder carry water. He can be seen picking up the garbage, serving soup and coffee, taking a nap, and sorting through donated clothes and books. He’s been observed meeting with organizers, talking to the media, and sorting through government paper work. He is praying with the sick or weary and visiting folks in jail. And maybe, just maybe, he has climbed over a fence and gotten himself arrested. Tenting among us and occupying human reality, our Lord is once again crying out for justice and peace.

As the prophets remind us, we have to acknowledge bad news before we can receive good news. So here’s some bad news on this Christmas Eve. Right now, in this country: 25 million people can’t find a full-time job; 50 million individuals live without health insurance; 47 million need government help in order to feed themselves; 15 million homeowners owe more on their mortgages than the value of their houses; more than 8 million people lost their homes in the foreclosure crisis; about 1.5 million men, women and children are in need of shelter; and the
top 20% of Americans control 93% of our nation’s total financial wealth. Some of you sitting in this cathedral tonight know are living the painful reality of these statistics.

But here’s the good news. Jesus came into the world not just for the top 1% or the 99%; Christ came for the 100%. Jesus came to show all of us a better way. As clearly demonstrated throughout the Gospel accounts of Jesus’ life and teaching, God’s love made known to us in Christ commands us to feed the hungry, shelter the homeless, clothe the naked, visit those in prison, care for the sick and infirmed, create jobs to those who want to work, and welcome the stranger and sojourner in our midst.

The Gospel of Jesus Christ is good news for all of us, but tent camping with Jesus is not a cheap holiday, and maybe this is what the Occupy Movement is teaching the church.

Reflecting on the Occupy tent city in front of Exeter Cathedral, Dr Siobhán Garrigan, Senior Lecturer in Theology and Religion at the University of Exeter, writes: “The image of the tents, the sincerity of the organizers, the theological soundness of their challenging message: could it not be that these serve as an unusually literal reminder of what it is like when God’s Word is made flesh?”

Yes, it’s chaotic, and for some, it’s downright threatening, but might not the Occupy Movement be God at work in the world? Everybody knows that demolishing and renovating a falling-down structure can be dirty and messy work. In today’s global economy, there’s so much wrong, there are so many possibilities for what could be right, and there are so many people that want to be part of the rebuilding. No wonder it’s a muddled, messy, sometimes disorganized, and even conflicted movement.

As I reflect on the emerging, developing and I daresay, growing Occupy Movement, I am reminded of Jesus’ first disciples who were earnest but frequently incompetent in their effort to follow our Lord and spread his message of justice and love. As much as Jesus tried to teach them his ways, they constantly missed the mark, stumbled over their words, tripped over their feet, and fumbled the ball down the field. And the church has been doing the same ever since.

This fumbling, stumbling and sometimes bumbling coalition of young people, many of whom are graduating from college with enormous debt and limited job prospects, joining forces with the out-of-work middle-aged and out-of-luck elders, are doing their best to speak and act prophetically about the transformation they see as essential in today’s world.

As Dr. Garrigan suggests: The Church might not like the form the Occupy message takes – all that mess and inconsistency and newness, but… far from saying “we stand against you” the protesters are saying to the church: “we sleep beside you”.

You see, when God wants an important thing done in this world or a wrong righted, God comes and sleeps beside us, sometimes as a new born child and sometimes as homeless adult. And then God waits to see how we respond.

Yes, the people who walk in darkness have seen a great light. To us was born a child and yet a savior who came to sleep and stand beside us. He didn’t own home, didn’t drive a car, didn’t possess a credit card or even a savings account, and didn’t have health insurance. No, our savior was born into poverty, lived simply, and died a poor man’s death. He was a shepherd seeking lost sheep and a leader who washed the feet of his followers. He was a sower of seeds, a baker of bread, a maker of wine, a breaker of laws, a lover of children, a friend to many, and finally a humble and obedient servant of God, destined to die on a cross for the sake of love.

The good news of Christmas is that God, first as a newborn infant and then as a young adult, decided to pitch a tent among us. The challenge of Christmas is that Christ calls us to join in making a better and safer tent for all of creation. The hope of Christmas is that we will receive in our battered hearts this “most vulnerable and appealing creature imaginable” and spread his message of justice and peace throughout the world.

Like many great ideas, necessity was the mother of this invention.  It was 2008, the stock market had plummeted, and everyone was feeling strapped and not wanting Christmas to be too costly.  So we came up with some simple rules for family gift giving – every present had to be under $10, recycled, or homemade.  Once the rules were communicated and agreed upon, everybody went to work.

Christmas Day arrived and we had the best time.  My mother made fudge, and then we wrapped up her barely-used collection of purses for every woman and girl in the family, and to the men she gave a slightly-used briefcase or backpack.   Emily’s parents gave away very special items from their home, and the room filled with shouts of glee as sons, daughters, grandchildren and in-laws unwrapped precious books from childhood and special pieces of family furniture or silver that had been lovingly polished anew.  The farmers in our family presented frozen pork chops and sausage from Ralph the 4-H pig, dilly beans from their garden, figs in earl grey tea, pickled quince and fresh eggs from a new flock of chickens.  I gave photographs in recycled frames, and Emily made incredible batches of olives brined in a secret recipe of spices and oils.   And nobody spent more than $10 on any gift.

We set up a table for a CD Exchange, and what was one person’s tired music became another’s great discovery.  And then, over eggnog and olives, we had the funniest Yankee Swap and watched a family of girls fight over a Jane Austin CD collection that ended up being a box without the CD’s (we just found those last week in the attic).

Financial necessity changed our family Christmas.  The holidays have become more creative, thoughtful and less hectic.  Christmas changed our family attitudes about consumption and gift-exchange.

10RH = Christmas -> Try it with your family.

Reprinted from The Cathedral Connection, December 2010

“Radicalism” invokes both positive and negative responses. Religious perspectives have often been considered radical. The Interfaith Lecture Series this week seeks to examine both the positives and negatives of radical thinking – historically and currently – to discern when it produces burden – and when blessing.

I’m looking for any and all good resources – books, films, music, essays, podcasts, prayers, etc. as inspiration and homiletical hay. So please send it on to me. Thanks!

Occupy Wall Street on Columbus Day 2011Occupy Wall Street

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As I suggested in my sermon last week, there were three prophets, or schools of prophets, named Isaiah.  Isaiah the First confronted a nation in power.  Second Isaiah, or Isaiah, Jr., (as I like to call him) comforted this same people living in exile and captivity.  Isaiah III encouraged them as a newly liberated refugees returning to their homeland crippled by years of warfare and neglect.

Like his predecessors, Isaiah III was a prophet of hope and challenge. He was anointed by God to announce good news to the oppressed, the broken-hearted, and the despondent.  The Spirit rested upon him and commissioned him to proclaim the year of God’s favor and the day of God’s vengeance.  Isaiah III was called to declare to a beloved and chosen people: the Holy One, the maker of heaven and earth, would provide, deliver, and take charge; and that in doing so, something new and wonderful was about to happen.

Isaiah III heralded the creation of a new heaven, the birthing of a new earth, and the building of a new city – the New Jerusalem.  He declared it as a city in which there would be new life.  In the New Jerusalem, there would be no more weeping or crying over infants dying of malnutrition and disease, over young men dying of violence on the streets, or over young women bearing children for calamity. In God’s new city, there would be no more hunger, homelessness, poverty, or exploitation.

Isaiah III proclaimed that, in God’s new city, there would be no hurt or destruction: no more wars, no more torture, and no more Missing in Action.  Instead, there would be peace.  Like the wolf and the lamb, former enemies would sit down and eat together.

Five hundred years later, there was another voice sent from God.  His name was John.  When political and religious authorities asked, “Who are you?”  John simply responded, “I am the voice of one crying out in the wilderness.”

John was a voice crying out in the wilderness of life words of justice, decency, and honor.  He declared the fiery passion of God’s righteousness.  He said the time had come to get right with God and neighbor.  Quoting the words of his spiritual and prophetic ancestor Isaiah, John insisted clearly that the time was NOW!

If Jesus was the Word of God come among us, John warmed up the crowd.  If Jesus was the keynote speaker, John introduced him.  If Jesus could be compared to the bridegroom, then John was the best man.  If Jesus was the appointment, then John was the alarm clock. If Jesus was the carpenter, John was the demolition contractor.  If Jesus was the door to God’s warmth and light, then John was the doorkeeper standing in the dark and cold.  Like the prophets who came before him, John was a voice of hope and challenge.

Voices are funny things.  They can be detached from the rest of the human body and still be effective – the radio broadcaster, the announcer at the baseball game, or the person on the other end of the telephone line.  Sometimes we know people we’ve never met just by the sound of their voice.   Sometimes we recognize a voice but we just can’t place it.

Some voices carry much power and influence, while other voices go unheard.  The power and influence of a voice can change over time.  Think about how Martin Luther King’s or Ghandi’s voice grew over the course of their lives of service and leadership.  Think about presidential candidates – before they enter the primary season, we don’t know their voice from Adam, but by election day, we can recognize the tone and timbre of their speech, the rhythm and rhyme of their rhetoric.

Voices are tools.  They can be used to build up relationships and community or break down.  I can still hear my grandmother’s voice saying,  “Words once spoken are like eggs once broken; they can never be put back together again.”

The three Isaiah’s, along with John the Baptist, are voices of integrity that teach us the importance of being faithful to God and self, never wavering from one’s truth and holding fast to one’s truth.  No union organizer would not want any of the Isaiah’s, and especially not John the Baptist, at the negotiating table, but you would certainly want them on the stage to rally the troops.  Their bold, direct, and candid voices of hope that challenge make abundantly transparent God’s promises and as they clear the way for God’s plans.

Today’s world is blessed with many and varied voices of hope that challenge, including those who in the name of justice occupy public squares around the globe, those who risk life and freedom for higher ideals, and those who dare us to question and confront our most deeply held values and beliefs.   They also include voices of hope that challenge our private disappointments and encourage our individual dreams.

This year’s trio of Nobel Peace Prize winners -  Ellen Johnson and Sirleaf Leymah Gbowee of Liberia and Tawakkul Karman of Yeman – are voices of hope that challenge.  These three women, deeply inspired by their faith, have played leading roles in the global struggle for democracy, peace, and human rights.

Sister Jean Prejean offers hope to the some 3,200 men and women living on death row in America as she challenges our nation to end capital punishment.  In defying the stereotype of “the one percent,” and calling for significant tax reform, Warren Buffett is a voice of hope that challenges.  Dan Savage and Terry Miller, the creators of the world-wide “It Gets Better” video movement, are voices of hope for LGBT young people facing harassment.

Today’s voices of hope and challenge also include the high school students who spoke at this past week’s Education Action Assembly organized by Greater Cleveland Congregations.  When they talked about the challenges of their lives and those of their families, and then thanked the Cleveland Municipal School District CEO, the Cleveland Teachers Union President and the Mayor for not eliminating transportation, sports, and pre-school, the crowd of nearly 900 urban and suburban people of faith was moved beyond words.

Being a voice of hope that challenges requires energy, courage, vision, integrity, patience, and endurance. But most of all, it requires faith – faith in a God who makes good on his promises, faith in a God who won’t abandon her vision, faith in a God who loves us all.

Both Isaiah and John were voices of hope and challenge in their time.  God knows how much we need such voices today.  We need those voices in our personal lives – to get off our behinds, stop feeling sorry for ourselves, and get our act together.  The church needs those voices to keep us moving on the way to God’s dream.  The public square also needs those voices (both on the right and on the left) to enliven our democracy.

And guess what folks?   As followers of a God enfleshed and born in stable, who proclaimed good news to the poor, release to the prisoners, and sight to the blind; a God who lived and walked among us, and died on a cross as one of us; a God who promised hope to the hopeless, joy to the sorrowful, healing to the broken-hearted, and eternal life to the dying; as followers of God in Christ, we are called to listen to, and to become, voices of hope that challenge.

As we approach Christmas, let us consider giving and receiving a gift that really matters.  Let us become voices of hope that challenge, and let us welcome, with open minds and generous hearts, the voices of hope and challenge that, in the words of Richard Rohr, “confront, convert, and console us – in that order.”